


To Keep Under Seven Locks

by Chatika (salamanderssmile)



Series: In fide aeternam [3]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Friendship, Listen they really care about each other ok that's what this is all about, Loneliness, M/M, Old Friends Meet New Friend, Social Inexperience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 12:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11760399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderssmile/pseuds/Chatika
Summary: A crowned Prince has little time for others, yet all beings desire companionship.A friend is a precious thing, indeed.





	To Keep Under Seven Locks

**Author's Note:**

> it's not kinky, it's not creepy.  
> the title is a reference to a brazilian song which says "A friend is something to keep under seven locks". "to keep [something] under seven locks" is also a brazilian saying that means whatever is being kept is very precious/dear to you.

Faraam watched as his knight sat heavily on a bench. His freckles were darker than usual, color accentuated by the heat and sun. They were both drenched in sweat, sticky and odorous. Ornstein huffed a breath as he leaned against the wall behind him, clearly pleased with the shade temperature. His training glaive rested between his knees, dull blade up where the stones of the courtyard couldn't damage it. He groaned as he leaned forward, and Faraam had to resist the urge to laugh at the downturn of his lips.

“I feel vile, Your Grace.” The knight said, looking up at the Prince through his lashes in a way that managed to convey annoyance and little else.

“Thou  _ art _ vile. Pungent, really.” Faraam replied with a shrug and a smile that had Ornstein raising an eyebrow.

“Consider’st thou not vile thyself? For thou certainly art, as much as I.” Though his expression changed little, in the time they had known each other, Faraam had learned to read his subtle language. A tilt of the head, the twitch of an eyebrow – it all came together to tell the Prince that Ornstein was joking. He had had much more trouble when they had first met. The knight’s seeming impassivity would become unnerving at times, before Faraam started seeing through it.

The Prince smiled wide even as he realized he was staring. “Art thou accusing the Prince of Sunlight of falling for such mortal trappings?”

“I know thou dost.” Ornstein answered with a nonchalant shrug. “In fact, I begin to doubt thy title. Surely thy sire would not allow the sun to shine so bright, in disregard of thee and thy comfort.”

“Thou know’st him not, then.” Faraam said with a snort. “Wouldst thou prefer rain? Thou wouldst be wet all the same.”

“I have always preferred the rain.” The knight replied with a tilt of his head, shapely eyebrows raised slightly. “It is often calming, even storms.”

“As my knight is wont to do.” Faraam smiled fondly, sitting by Ornstein’s side on the bench. “After all, how would he serve the regent of storms, if storms he trusteth not?”

Ornstein’s smile was but a curl of lips as he looked at the ground, leaning his weight against the glaive between his legs. His breaths were deep, and even his shoulders drooped slightly. He was clearly tired, Faraam could see, and could relate. They had spent the morning and best part of the afternoon fighting, and attempting to break boulders. “Dragon scales are but sculpted rocks”, the Scaleless Dragon had told them. He had also said lightning would fell the beasts, and had not been wrong. Yet one dragon still took down entire regiments with it, more often than not. Few were the successful dragonslayers, and all of them had the scars to prove even they needed luck. Looking at his knight’s face, Faraam thought he was the perfect example. The deep gashes, long closed and yet still obviously there, one across his cheeks and nose, one down his right cheek to his neck, were impossible to ignore. To the Prince, they screamed “Here lieth a dragon!”. His knight was, indeed, one of few.

“Very well, let us leave, and return tomorrow.” Faraam declared, rising to his feet and looking downwards at Ornstein. “And thou mayst thus bathe afore this night’s feast. Father hath invited many Silver Knights to join it, in such way thou shalt not sit alone amongst terrible nobility anymore.”

Ornstein looked up at him with pleased surprise on his face. He had resigned from his position as an officer of the Silver Knight army but a week prior, as his duties as the Prince’s knight grew more pressing. It would be very pleasing indeed to meet the other Knights in a place other than the barracks’ common room or baths as he returned exhausted after a long day of training. He wondered if any of his previous regiment were invited. Elena, if any, as their officer, he was sure would be there. Ornstein rose to his feet, looking up at the Prince’s face still.

“I am thankful to know that.” He bowed at the waist before Faraam. “I shall take my leave, Your Grace.”

Faraam nodded, and the knight righted himself, turning to leave with a brush of his fingers on the Prince’s arm. For a second, Faraam thought of how the other’s fingers always seemed cooler than his own skin, and if that was true for the rest of him.

  
  


The feast was, as always, bright and brilliant, full of Lords in colorful garments, and the scents of a plethora of dishes. The Silver Knights invited were a roaring crowd sat at one of the long tables. From his seat on the royal family’s table, on a stand overlooking the room, Faraam could see all the guests. Most importantly, he could see the lack of a specific head of red hair anywhere along the tables. The room’s reflections of the fires cast a golden light upon everything, but nothing could quite achieve the particular shade of amber he looked for. Faraam only half listened as his father spoke to the people present about faith and pride and duty and whatever else. It interested him none, the speeches, the “art of ruling”, as the Lord of Sunlight put it. He had been born war, after all, and he cared for little else.

Some guests, late, kept walking in through the open doors to the hall. Eventually, Faraam spotted it. The red hair and tanned skin, proud posture and scarred face. Ornstein looked particularly soft under the golden light, the Prince noticed. His stoic expression seemed less stony and more… cold. Like a mirror in the early morning. Yet it was also more inviting. It made the knight look particularly delicate, despite the scars. Delicate in a way that reminded Faraam of Gwynevere’s courtiers, all similarly blessed with a soft beauty that drew in the eye. Even his hair was less orderly than usual. Ornstein’s welcome at the knights’ table was uproarious, a loud celebration. The nobles and Gwynevere looked on in contempt, some in disdain. They didn't understand the point of such discourteous behavior. They didn't understand the soldiers who fought and died for them were so very proud, so very happy. Because one of theirs, who bled with them, who was at their side when the enemies descended upon them, had become part of such pompous nobility. Faraam found himself feeling fond of the Knights, warriors as they were. He figured it was just as well, for a god should be fond of those he watches over, and a god of war shall always guard his warriors.

The Prince watched the soldiers as they congratulated Ornstein in their own ways, for whatever they could think. His appointment as the royal Prince’s knight had been long enough ago that it was no longer news, but he was still a symbol for the Silver Knights, of success and honor. Faraam watched them, noticing how Ornstein sneaked quick looks up at the royal family’s table in search of the Prince’s gaze. Whenever their eyes met, the knight would smile at him; a small thing, barely perceptible, but that softened his entire countenance. Eventually, however, Gwyn’s attempts at starting a conversation engrossed both his eldest children, and by the time Faraam disentangled himself from it, he was tired. Of the noise and the lights and the people in the salon. He wished for quiet. For such a reason, he looked at the knights again, searching for Ornstein. He liked to accompany the Prince to the garden balcony he normally fled to at times like those. Yet, Faraam found the redhead, rosy cheeked and probably more than halfway drunk, with another knight’s arm draped heavily across his shoulders, and at least three more listening  _ too _ raptly to him. The Prince smirked and raised an eyebrow as he pushed his chair away from the table. He was not the only one after his knight’s attention, it seemed. Still, something snagged in his chest, and he looked at the knights again as he walked through the room. He  _ wanted _ to go over to the table and ask Ornstein to go along with him. He  _ wanted _ to sit on the balcony and talk for hours on end, until long after the feast was done for, as they did almost every evening, now. But the knight looked happy with his friends, and Faraam, of all things he were, refused to be someone who would take that away.

So he stepped into the balcony by himself, with only the wind on the hedges to whisper to him. The salon’s sounds and lights seemed distant, dulled, and it felt like he had at last breached the surface after being underwater for too long. The calm was soothing at first, his shoulders drooping as he leaned against the railing, eyes closed. But his muscles grew tense in the solitude, not in the way of fear or anxiety, but filled with restless energy. For a moment, he felt the urge to lift one of the ornate stone benches and smash it against the railing until one was nothing but dust. He felt like running, or screaming, or fighting, but definitely  _ doing _ something. In his stomach, it seemed a rock had set, or perhaps a hole opened, and his chest felt tight, and maybe a bit raw. Confusion set in, as he could not be poisoned, the only explanation he could think of for such odd sensations. It took Faraam perhaps too long to realize he was simply lonely. It had been long since he last felt like that, and his body raged against it, urged him to do something, distract himself. He did not blame it; it was a most uncomfortable feeling, indeed.

In his life, god of War and crowned Prince, Faraam had had little companionship, of any sort. His duties never seemed to come to an end, and his distaste for glamorous balls and dinners helped him naught. He was used to being alone, to the distant, nagging feeling of loneliness. It was simply the reality he was born into, less man than Lord, less person than god. So it did come as a surprise, to him, how strong it felt, then, in that balcony. He was hardly an only child running through the newly built Cathedral anymore. Yet, his chest felt tight, and he felt sad. For no good reason, Faraam thought, as he was  _ used _ to it. Or he should be, at any rate, after so long. But he wasn't, not anymore. Because he longed not for any abstract company, but a specific one. Someone he was fond of, and didn't share his blood. Faraam rolled his eyes with a snort – he was annoyed at his own personal dramatics. But he smiled, a small thing, but a curl of lips, because he knew he would not be lonely for long anymore.

  
  


Faraam watched, amused, as Ornstein angrily slammed his glaive against the boulder, doing little more than chipping it. While his face remained stoic but for his lips being tighter than usual, his movements were all strength and no finesse. In one of his strikes, the glaive cut into the stone just enough to get stuck, and Faraam chuckled as the knight kicked it off to clatter on the floor near a discarded spear. Pouting, Ornstein marched to the armory attached to the courtyard, returning with a greatsword. The Prince watched in curiosity as the knight wrapped cloth around the blade before thrusting it into the stone as he did to the dragon when Faraam first saw him. Unsurprisingly, the blade achieved the result Ornstein wanted, boulder split into two. He breathed heavily, gaze a fulminating glare directed at the chunks of stone. Abruptly, he turned around, looking at Faraam, lips still pursed in anger, and threw the greatsword on the ground as well, to clatter noisily.

“I was frustrated.” The knight said, completely serious, as if he hadn't been about to bite the boulder into two.

Faraam laughed, and did it harder when Ornstein seemed even more annoyed for it. He covered his face with a hand as he couldn't stop, barely seeing his knight picking up the discarded weapons. He didn't stop even as the glaive’s blunt end hit him on the chest and he had to scramble to take hold of it. By the time the laughter subsided to staccato snorting, Ornstein had an eyebrow raised and seemed to be fighting the urge to drop the weapons again and cross his arms.

“I am glad it was a pleasing ordeal to watch.” The knight said through his teeth.

“I apologize.” Faraam replied, wiping his eyes with the heel of his right hand. “‘It is but rare to see thee so… fiery.”

Ornstein sighed, looking to the side, expression slowly softening. “Yes, I am aware.”

“Take’st thou no offense. It is endearing.” The knight looked back at him with a curious look on his face. “But it is of no consequence. What caused thee to lose thy temper so?”

“Aside from the rock’s adamant refusal to do as it was told?” Ornstein leveled yet another look at the split boulder before looking back at the Prince. “The glaive. It serveth not this purpose well.” The knight heaved the greatsword from his shoulder with a twirl to invert the grip he had on it. “The sword, though it doth, was not meant for such, and so it can be… troublesome to wield in such a fashion.”

“And the spear?” Faraam asked as the other paused for a moment too long.

“It would be perfect, but its grip is… lacking.” The knight looked pensively as the spear. “It hath no hilt guard.”

“If a sword would have a longer hilt? Would that be more fitting to thy standards?” The Prince inquired with a tilt of his head.

“It would, I imagine.” Ornstein answered before humming, a small smile on his lips.

“What pleaseth thee?”

“It is…” The knight breathed a quiet chuckle. “Your Grace hast a different way of seeing the world.”

Faraam blinked rapidly, frowning, surprised. “What maketh it so?”

“The other knights simply told me to use a piece of cloth.” Ornstein looked at the Prince with a fond smile. “None thought of a longer hilt.”

Faraam smiled back at him, pink on his cheeks at being praised. The knight gently set the spear on the floor to hold the sword with two hands. Faraam watched as he measured the blade with his palm, and compared its length to the hilt’s. As he did, the Prince realized that, though Ornstein’s hands were not small for the knight’s size, his fingers would only reach Faraam’s own last knuckles, if splayed against his.

“Did’st thou enjoy thyself last night?” The Prince asked when his lungs no longer felt empty.

“Oh?” Ornstein looked up at him with curious eyes before averting them with a smirk and raised eyebrows. “So one could say, yes. I missed such gatherings with my fellow knights, I must admit.”

“I am glad. Thou dost seem fond of them.” The Prince nodded, looking to the side as Ornstein looked at him again. “I can only imagine what it is to know one’s soldiers so well.”

“Thou  _ dost _ care about them, dost thou not?” The knight’s eyes were full of such naked admiration that Faraam felt his face grow hotter. “Thou art a Lord as no other.”

“Such high praise is uncalled for, my knight.” The Prince said, barely able to meet the other’s gaze.

“I disagree.” Ornstein replied before humming pensively. “If thou so desire’st, I may introduce thee to them.”

“Wouldst thou?” Faraam asked with unbidden excitement, feeling himself flush further.

“If it is thine wish.” The knight bowed his head. “I am loathe to deny thee anything.”

“It would be my honor, my knight,” Faraam said, chest tight. “if thou wouldst be so kind.”

“Very well. I shall arrange for it.” Ornstein smiled at him, a wide smile for the knight, showing teeth. He extended his arms towards the Prince, presenting him the greatsword. “Now, however, I wish thou to show me what are thy thoughts regarding this… swordspear.”

They discussed the hypothetical weapon until they tired of talking, preferring instead to spar, then sit in silence, side by side. The twilight was tinging everything in a yellow tone in the humidity by the time Faraam rose to his feet, looking down at the knight who made no movement to do the same. The Prince extended a hand to him, which Ornstein took. Again, he noticed how his fingers were cooler than Faraam’s own. With a deep breath, Ornstein bowed at the waist.

“May I take my leave, Your Grace?” His voice was soft.

“If thou so wishest.” The Prince replied.

The knight straightened his postured, nodding deeply in a silent farewell. He was already halfway through the courtyard as Faraam watched him go when he turned around, small smile on his face.

“I must thank thee, Your Grace.” Ornstein said loudly, to be heard clearly.

“What for?” The Prince asked in return, at the same volume.

“For the clouds.” The knight pointed at the sky. “I do so hope for rain.”

Faraam smiled as the other man turned around, watched as he walked away. That night, when Ornstein laughed on the garden balcony at some thing or another the Prince said, a light drizzle fell.

  
  


They headed to a battlefield a week later. It was not far from Anor Londo, as the army was supposed to reach it within a three days march, resting at night. Faraam had always thought such marches dreadfully dull affairs, and the camps even worse. His time, when not occupied with war councils in his father’s frankly oversized tent, was filled with nothing but waiting. His knight made the daytime easier, as he marched alongside his Prince like his own shadow. It was pleasing to Faraam, to be able to actually talk to someone during the travel. But during the evenings, Ornstein would disappear without a trace, returning to his tent – positioned by Faraam’s own, as befit a royal knight - only to collapse on his cot and wake up the morning after. The Prince expected the pattern would not be any different in that particular travel.

He had already sat himself by the small table in his tent when he heard the flaps open and close quickly after. Faraam was standing in a moment, glaive in hand and in a ready stance. He was about to angrily inquire the would-be trespasser when he noticed the red hair and amber eyes, new helmet tucked under an arm. Ornstein brought a finger to his own lips in a plea for silence, which the Prince obliged. The knight made his way over to him as quietly as possible, standing a hair’s width away from Faraam. The smaller man stood on his toes, stretching up to speak into the breathless Prince’s ear.

“It would seem I am not allowed here unannounced, but I wish us to remain unseen.” Ornstein whispered as Faraam clenched his fists, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Follow’st thou me if thou wouldst. I shall take thee to meet my friends, of my old regiment.”

Faraam nodded enthusiastically as the knight backed away, grabbing the Prince’s heavy cloak from the cot. He gestured for Faraam to dress it, and he did, covering his head with the hood. The knight exited the tent first, signaling for the Prince to follow a moment later. They took a winding path through the sea of tents to avoid campfires. Faraam felt exhilarated, like a teenager during their first act of rebellion. His knight eventually stopped him two rows of tents before a certain campfire, inching forward to look at the people around it before gesturing for Faraam to follow again.

“Ah, our brave not commander returneth!” A woman’s voice rang out as Ornstein stepped into the clearing, taking off his helmet. “And whosoever followeth thee, eh?

Faraam took off the heavy hood covering his head as Ornstein opened his mouth to answer, sweeping a hand through silvery locks. He noticed, quickly, that he was taller than all eight knights around the campfire, and Ornstein, shorter.

“My liege. His Grace, Gwynsen, Prince of Sunlight.” The knight smiled, a small one.

“I am honored to meet you, Silver Knights.” Faraam said, looking at those sitting.

They all bore similar expressions – wide eyed, open mouths, hand frozen while holding bowls of half-eaten dinner. They seemed to be somewhere between mortified and unable to even understand the situation. The first to recover was the woman that had spoken earlier, smiling awkwardly as she stood up and bowed.

“The honor is entirely ours, Your Grace, I assure thee.” She glared at the other knights to stand and do the same, and they scrambled to follow her lead.

They all stood still, looking at Faraam with those wide eyes when Ornstein said, with a chuckle, that they could all sit, for the Prince would not be offended. The royal knight himself sat, and gestured for Faraam to do the same. They had blankets on the ground, but they were few, and the Prince’s seat was close enough to his knight that their knees and hands brushed as they sat cross-legged. Ornstein and the woman, Elena, who Faraam assumed to be the regiment’s current commander, started talking as the royal knight grabbed a bowl she gave to him. Still, the atmosphere was tense. The Prince could feel the other knights looking at him and averting their eyes just as quickly. He could not say, didn't have the tact to say, if they were afraid, or embarrassed, or a blend of the two. He felt as a fish on dry land. He turned his gaze to his hands, resting on his lap, and waited. And waited. And, after a significant amount of time, the knights started talking again. Faraam raised his gaze to look at them, discussing this or that, illuminated by firelight. They laughed and called each other names, they spoke in somber tones about battles ahead and past, and the Prince soaked in their every word. He felt warmth in his chest, and took a moment too long to realize he was happy.

“Wherefore did he choose thee, at any rate?” One of the taller knights, a lanky man, asked Ornstein at some point.

Faraam looked at his knight, whose expression was just as stony as ever, as the redhead turned to look at the other Silver Knight. He slowly raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth to speak after he let the silence stretch on for just a moment longer.

“That is hardly a question for me.” He said with a tilt of his head towards the Lord at his side.

Faraam was entirely unprepared for the eight pairs of eyes turning to look at him as if reminded of his presence for the first time. They all hesitated, but the lanky one eventually spoke, with a tone initially shaky:

“Wherefore did’st thou choose Sir Ornstein to be thy knight, Your Grace? I-If I may ask, of course.”

The Prince blinked, looking between them, and opened his mouth once before shutting it again. He frowned, thinking of Ornstein, bleeding and heaving atop a dead dragon. He thought of the look in his eyes when he fought, the measured violence in them. At last, he thought of the knight angrily slamming a glaive against a boulder and had to resist the urge to laugh. Faraam looked at Ornstein at his side, and then back at the other knights with a smile.

“He broke my nose.” He said simply. He had no other way to put it.

The knights, who had leaned forward in anticipation, were stunned for a moment before breaking into laughter. Faraam chuckled along until he felt cold fingertips touch his. Looking down, he saw Ornstein’s small smile, and smiled himself.

In time, when the campfire had faded to a flickering flame, Ornstein rose to his feet, and Faraam stood with him. All the other knights took little to do the same. The royal knight had his hands behind his back and an imperious posture. His commander stance, the Prince realized.

“It is time for us to rest, as tomorrow we shall march once more.” His voice was deeper than usual, and it had an effect; the other knights stood ramrod straight, at attention. A stocky one smiled however.

“Thou’rt no longer our commander, Sir Ornstein.” The man grinned as Ornstein blinked in annoyance.

Before the royal knight could say anything, however, Dame Elena intervened: “Indeed, that would be me, and I say the same. You need not ask the royal Prince, your General, to confirm both our orders, yes?”

The knight blushed and shook his head before muttering his wishes of a good rest for all of them. Slowly, the knights filed out in a similar, if less embarrassed, manner. Elena was the last one, leaving only Ornstein and Faraam, standing side by side by the dying fire.

“Art thou glad?” The knight asked in a quiet voice.

“Yes. Quite glad. Though…” The Prince started. “Did’st thou forewarn them of me?”

“I… Did not, did I?” Ornstein dragged a hand down his face as Faraam chuckled.

“I believe I might have surprised them.” He said softly.

“I had said I wished for them to meet a dear friend.” Ornstein sighed, closing his eyes. “Thought I they would know. Alas, I was wrong, it would seem.”

“A friend?” Faraam asked, wide eyed.

“Yes, is it a riddle to all but mine own?” Ornstein replied, hands raised in an inquiring shrug.

“No! It is simply…” The Prince looked down and to the side, uncertain of how to say it. “I cannot recall the last time one not of my blood claimed me such.”

“Oh…” Ornstein’s face softened a fraction as he looked at the Prince. “Well… Thou art. My friend, that is. Am I not thine?”

Faraam met his gaze and noticed it almost vulnerable. “Of course.”

For the first time since they had met, Ornstein  _ smiled _ . Not a small curl of lips, or a tiny flash of teeth, but one that overtook his expression. He looked, for lack of better words, handsome, at least to the Prince. And as if it wasn't enough, the knight stretched up on his toes to put his arms around Faraam’s neck in a hug that he knew not how to reciprocate.

“I cannot find words to say how glad I am to know that.” The knight said, still beaming as he backed away, hands on Faraam’s shoulders. “Now, let us seek rest ourselves. Morrow shall come early.”

The Prince nodded with dazzled smile, and followed his friend as he wove through the tents once more.

**Author's Note:**

> [ornstein voice] becky lemme smash  
> boy slept with like 3 ppl in a night, he's fucking living.
> 
> faraam is a lonely boy, please give him more friends.


End file.
